When you tell people you’re a writer, inevitably someone says, “Oh, I really want to write a book! I have an idea for one, in fact.” Some people share their ideas with trepidation (we creative types are sensitive souls); some do it effusively, as if they alone know that they’ve written the next Hunger Games.

Whether their ideas have substance in my opinion or not, I never discourage anyone from pursuing that dream because, honestly, my first attempts were total crap. In my teens, becoming a writer was nothing more than a dream. A desire to whisk others away into long ago worlds in different lands. To create heroes larger than life who would risk life and limb for freedom and friendship. To touch upon the common threads of human experience: struggle, hope, triumph, courage, redemption.

Could I have crafted a whole book back when I was 14? Heck, no. I didn’t know the first thing about pacing or character arcs or hooks. I just liked to daydream. I liked the way words sounded. I liked the resolution you get in a book, because real life is messy. I liked feeling like my heart was in someone else’s (the writer’s) hands.

Anyway, today a high school classmate shared a link to an essay his daughter wrote. I was, honestly and truly, blown away by the beauty of the words. You see, writers see beyond the obvious. They understand the power of emotions and the beauty in detail. This young lady has that gift, so I’d like to share this with you.

“She spills glitter on the floor so often. But I don’t see a mess. I see fallen fragments of stardust.” — Carmine Gothard

 

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